


Limerence

by ryuichimoji



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Fridge Horror, M/M, Psychological Horror, Slasher, Survival Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 08:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21425218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuichimoji/pseuds/ryuichimoji
Summary: Who knows who is outside~
Relationships: Lancelot & Vane (Granblue Fantasy), Lancelot/Vane (Granblue Fantasy)
Kudos: 5





	Limerence

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress and will be updated soon!

There’s a cool aired, windy breeze outside.

On the inside of a small, one bedroom yet two floored house, Lancelot sits on a sofa, legs curled under himself beneath a blanket. Blue, icy eyes reflect a television screen, which illuminates an otherwise darkened room, playing vague beacons colors on painted, white walling. From the audio, chords of high tension music sound off, giving a creeping sensation to the environment as two individuals on screen quietly step through overgrown brush near a lake. Enamored in the film, Lancelot’s lips twitch gently and he parts the bottom from the top, on edge and waiting for the inevitable pop scare. 

When it occurs, it bursts with blaring, stringed music and a masked villain storms into view, sending the characters fleeing, screams following as they dodge and dance around a swinging mallet. Lancelot releases a soft chortle of amusement, not due to the fear being portrayed; but because the cheesiness of the film was comical. While he was by no means an avid movie fanatic, he did relish in his dose of horror and found that the classics weren’t all that frightening. Friday the 13th, Scream, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre; they all had a charm to them that wasn’t nearly as 'scary' as they could be. The out of date, aged sets, the grainy texture over the records, or the foolish, acted scripts--it was a wonder how anyone could feel paranoid about them. They were silly. 

With an livened smile righting his mouth, he tugs the blanket off of himself and rises to his footing, carefully picking his way around a coffee table, whilst plucking an empty, blue mug from it. His attention scans to a rounded clock across the room, and he checks the time, briefly. 10:23 PM. Vane should have returned by now, though it wasn’t something to worry too much about. Shortly after they had moved in together, Vane had gotten a job at a small cafe, where the hours occasionally leaked into overtime. Students had the habit of showing up near closing, their campus being a little over a mile away. Vane had once mentioned that he sometimes got wound up in trying to help them with their work, therefore forgetting that it was time to close shop and return home. Which was fine, Lancelot couldn’t say that he was horribly upset about it, as it was great news to hear Vane was being helpful, but..

That wasn’t to say the longer evenings didn’t grow lonesome. Since his own job as a waiter released him earlier most nights, he often returned to a vacant house. Their cat was present, as usual, though he could only offer so much companionship until he ran off, returning to the upstairs loft of a ‘bedroom’ to sleep. Without another voice and human presence, hours sometimes carved into what felt like days, and he could admit that it caused him to be restless, or too winded by his own thoughts. 

Regardless, he was mature enough to survive and adapt, leaving him to spend time alone watching movies or collections of shows over a cup of warm tea. Which he didn't mind! There was endless entertainment and it gave him conversation pieces to bring up at work. People enjoyed media, consumed it every waking day and when he was able to identify the merchandise they sported through shirts, phone charms, hats or even tattoos; he was able to bring them joyful service. 

His steps quiet and leisure, he makes his way into the household’s kitchen, slipping into its tighter space and to the neat, pristine sink. Flicking it on, he rinses the dish out, and glances to the small, rounded window directly above it, staring out into the cloaked yard, where only lights from nearby neighbors can be seen. They had their own porch light, but he rarely used it, wanting to save more electricity to their bills; and despite what he might have further thought, a knock at the door sparks his attention. Vane must have lost his key. 

Humored by the idea, he eagerly approaches the threshold, prepared to poke fun and provide a playfully cheerful greeting. This wasn't the only time this had happened. When it first occurred, Vane apologized over and over, the high of his cheeks dusted with a blush that Lancelot thought would never end. His eyes had been wide, illumination of blue specks upon green flecks searching for forgiveness that wasn't needed. It was cute--/adorable/ actually, and the way Vane babbled about how thankful he had been was something thought about often. He was such a soft soul, never wanting to cause trouble when it was a trait he just didn't appear capable of.

Swinging the door open, however, his shoulders find themselves slowly sinking at the empty, blank space of lack of presence. Vane's embarrassed expression wasn’t there, nor was anyone. It was barren, as if a person had never stood on the welcome mat, tapping their knuckles against the door's wood. Suspicion easing into account, he leans his upper body outside, checking with pointed sight, small shrubs and if anyone was hiding or waiting along the street. Nothing. Not even a passing car driving home, and certainly not the loud, clumsy man he wanted to see.

A hand braces on the door’s frame and he reluctantly shuts it, popping the lock into place with a small shake of his head. Pranksters, probably. Halloween might have passed, but it had only been six days since, and devotees to the holiday stubbornly held tightly onto the spirit. He knew he did the same-- though he wouldn’t stoop to adolescent tactics he might’ve acted on in his youth. Ding dong ditching someone and knocking on their door wasn’t worth the potential legal trouble he could get into if caught, nor was it acceptable for an adult to partake in. Still, he could recall the days when both he and Vane had scampered from door to door, knocking and leaving small trinkets behind to scare the neighbors. Vane had usually wound up crying or begging to return home, and through the noisy tears, they often got caught. Which was humorous in the moments he skimmed and reflected on their past together beforehand, though not quite in the moment.

Dejected, he returns to the couch and flops onto the cushions, eyeing where the movie had progressed and discovering it was nearing the end. Blanket tugged upwards, he tucks himself back in, but abruptly comes to a halting stop when the sound of what he figures is a fist, bangs expeditiously on the window in the kitchen. Heart spinning and breath pitching, he lurches forward and hastily stumbles to locate the light switch of the room, flashing it on. The area brightens, luminosity shedding across the orderly placed furniture and various decoration displayed on shelving. 

He’s never been one to startle too easily, nor one who rounds everything up to being dangerous; but the ‘pranking’ had gone one tic too far. His worry finds itself placing cupped hands on a nearby window, adjacent to the sofa; and he peeks outside, searching for any sign of movement. It’s dark, and there’s no remnants of anyone being nearby. Hopefully the light startled whoever it was. Teenagers and adults, whether pranksters or robbers, typically ran off whenever someone proved themselves to be aware of what was happening. Threats of law enforcement was too great of a risk, and he knew that if he were in their shoes, as impossible as it was; he would have left quickly to avoid it.

Standing with blood pulsing deafeningly in his ears, he parts from the window and checks the clock for several passing minutes, breaths slowly steadying. Nothing more happens. No knocks, no taps, no clangs. Only the noise of the television and the faint dripping of kitchen sink remains, leaving him to gradually loosen his frozen posture. It seems as if his method worked, and whomever was outside had their fun, packed it up and cleared out. Regardless..there remains some edge to his adrenaline and though he returns to sit down, he stands by as a dilated, crystallized pool of alertness, quieting the movie with a few, rapid clicks to the remote’s volume. His breathing is transient through his nostrils, and he finds it difficult to snuggle up and relocate the relaxation he had prior. Natural noises of the home taunt his ears, all minor creaks shooting spikes in blood pressure, concocting a formula for anxiety. For twenty minutes, he sits rigid, unmotivated to find a new movie and simply allowing it to play a different one on its own. 

If only Vane was home. They could laugh together about the possibilities of what pranks were happening and how many neighbors were being affected. They could reminisce about their own trickster days, shoulder to shoulder on the couch, partnered in one another’s warmth. He could beam in humor up at that wonderful, structured face, basking in the metaphorical rays of an iridescent smile that rained down on him, igniting comfort and security in his heart. Endless hours could be spent talking, bonding, feeling one another’s heat and adoring it.

Eventually, he comes to realize that it’s foolish to be this wound up. He was stronger than that. The tension he built begins to forcibly ease, and he pats the couch’s cushions for his phone, dipping fingers into crevices of fabric until he finds it. There’s no new messages, as to be expected, but he does pull Vane’s contact.

\--It’s almost eleven! Where are you?--


End file.
